


Gie's a Hand o' Thine

by Fyre



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Hogmanay, New Year's Eve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:42:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28477854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fyre/pseuds/Fyre
Summary: An angel and a demon celebrate Hogmanay
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 22
Kudos: 111





	Gie's a Hand o' Thine

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the To The World Zine :)

“D’you think anyone knows it’s the wrong day?”

Aziraphale pretended very hard not to glance sidelong at the demon walking beside him. “It’s how they do things up here, dear. This is the precursor to the main event.”

“Nah.” Crowley let go of the handle of his flaming torch with one hand to make an expansive gesture. “In general. The dates. Calendars were all over the place back in the day. Gregory one and old Julius and everything.”

The angel had to look away to fight down his smile.

All around them, people milled and flowed, their flaming torches a river of light pouring down between buildings both modern and old, feet tramping on the cobbles. At the head of the procession, the drummers were keeping time and the skirl of the pipes hung in the air.

“Given this calendar has been in place for all of living memory, I think they’ll be all right,” he said.

“They lost a fortnight, y’know,” Crowley continued, nudging him. “Whole two weeks. Pfft. Gone. Because they didn’t match.”

Aziraphale tried not to laugh. “Are you going to be the one to tell these lovely people we’re marching on the wrong date?”

“Marching! That’s another thing! Used to be New Year in March up here! Is this March? I think not!”

“Ah!” Aziraphale held up a finger. “But that’s the difference, you see. This event is based on the older winter festivals. _That_ hasn’t changed.” He shot a grin Crowley’s way. “So no more of your griping to persuade me to go inside because it’s a fake festival and you can’t admit it’s really because you forgot your gloves and your hands are cold.”

The demon gave him a look over the top of his glasses that was bordering on sticking his tongue out.

“A very measured and mature response, I’m sure,” Aziraphale said serenely and offered his snugly-gloved hand.

“Pfft.” Crowley not only rolled his eyes but his whole head dramatically. “Ugh.”

Still, once the theatrics were out the way, he slipped his hand into Aziraphale’s, squeezing it through the leather and fleecy lining. Aziraphale squeezed his hand in return as they continued down Edinburgh’s Royal Mile, carried along in the tide of thousands of torch-bearing humans.

The mood was electrifying, people whooping and cheering from the pavements as they passed.

“Is this the one where they set a boat on fire at the end?” Crowley inquired abruptly.

“That’s further north.” Aziraphale nodded in the direction of a small hill nestled in the ‘new’ side of the city and the mockery of the Parthenon atop it. “There’s a fireworks display up there.”

“Fire and music and explosions tonight. Booze and music and explosions tomorrow night.” Crowley’s face creased up in grudging approval. “Sounds about right for this lot.”

Together, they wended their way through the streets and up towards the faux Grecian monument, their tapered torches flickering and dancing as they walked, though Aziraphale couldn’t help notice that neither of their torches seemed to be burning down at all. _Someone_ was keeping the flames away from both of them.

As the procession wound its way up the hill, Crowley nudged him.

“Hm?”

“Wanna see me do an impression of you?”

Aziraphale glanced at the demon, who was grinning suspiciously widely. “An impression?”

Crowley’s teeth gleamed in the torchlight, the flames dancing on the lenses of his glasses. “Yeah.”

The angel pursed his lips, trying his utmost to feign disinterest, but morbid curiosity got the better of him. “Go on, then.”

Crowley slipped his hand free and headed towards a pair of humans who seemed to be having trouble keeping one of their torches lit. “Here you go. Flaming torch. No need to thank me.” He extended it more aggressively when the two humans gaped at him. “Go on! You want a working one, don’t you?”

“Cheers,” the man said warily, taking it. “You don’t need it?”

“Nah.” Crowley loped back to Aziraphale’s side, grinning like the Cheshire cat. “So?”

“That was meant to be me?”

“I gave it away!” Crowley parroted back at him, flapping his hands.

Aziraphale _definitely_ pursed his lips then, trying very hard not to laugh. “You are hopeless, darling.”

Crowley laughed, taking Aziraphale’s hand again when it was offered to him. “I learned from the best.”

________________________________

The new year’s eve’s eve fireworks had been pretty fancy for a small display. With the bagpipers doing their waily thing and the fire jugglers, it all looked impressive, but in Crowley’s opinion there were just too many bloody people.

He didn’t say as much, even though he’d ended up pressed right up against Aziraphale’s side, surrounded on all sides. The delight on the angel’s face made it all bearable, Aziraphale’s fingers closed snugly around his.

Still, they had another night, and this one, he’d planned down to the last detail.

“Blankets?” Aziraphale said, amused. “Not a common accessory for a party.”

Crowley shoved the two thick woolly tartan monstrosities at the angel. “It is for this one. Now, let me get the last bits…”

They’d taken rooms at one of the more prestigious hotels in the city and for once, he hadn’t tried to miracle up a picnic. Instead, he nipped into the side room of their suite and returned with a wicker picnic basket and a hefty magnum of champagne that the hotel had obligingly provided.

Aziraphale’s eyes went round. “Oooh!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Crowley grumbled cheerfully. “Don’t make a fuss, all right?”

“It’s a _picnic_!”

Funny how the angel could make him blush like a kid. “Is a bit,” he agreed, shoving the magnum under his arm, shifting the basket to rest on his forearm, and holding out his hand. “Ready to go?”

“You still haven’t told me where we’re going.”

Crowley laughed. “Best view in the house,” he said as Aziraphale threaded his fingers between Crowley’s. With a bit of careful balancing, he managed to snap his fingers, taking from the warm glow of the hotel room to a considerably more open and draughty location.

Above them, on a crown-ringed flagpole, a saltire flared and billowed in the breeze and Crowley gave Aziraphale a cautious grin. There were plenty of viewpoints around the city, but all of them were packed to the rafters. No one had thought about getting up to the top of the clock tower on top of their hotel.

“There’s not much room,” he said, which was an understatement given the ledge was just wide enough for the cushioned chairs he’d smuggled up earlier, “but look at that view.”

Aziraphale glowed with pleasure, gazing out at the sprawling panorama of the Hogmanay festivities down below. Thousands of people thronged the streets, the hum of sound rising even to their lofty pinnacle. And less than a mile away, jutting up on the rock above the city, the castle prodded at the sky, the focus of all the festivities.

“This is marvellous,” he said happily. “And I can see why we would need the blankets.”

Crowley made a happily noncommittal sound, wedging the picnic basket down on the floor beside the chairs. “Better get ourselves comfy,” he said, holding out a hand for one of the blankets. “We’ve got an hour until the bells and a feast to get through.”

Together, wrapped in the blankets like the wind-swept highland drovers and tucked up as close as could be, they – or more accurately Aziraphale – made a game effort of working through the basket. Crowley produced treat after treat, offering up salmon mousse and puffed vol au vents and sticky-sweet finger food.

From the party below, music hummed up.

“This is much better,” Aziraphale said with a happy sigh, smudging a fleck of some kind of sticky syrup from the corner of Crowley’s mouth with his thumb and licking it clean. “We get to enjoy some of the party without the noise and the crush.”

“And the beer spilled down my back,” Crowley agreed, hoisting the magnum into his lap. “Champagne?”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

They sat and sipped as the street party below grew more wild and raucous, and when Crowley slipped his hand into Aziraphale’s, they both pretended not to notice, even if they were grinning like tipsy idiots.

“My dear,” Aziraphale murmured, as the countdown began in the street below.

“Mm?”

Hazel eyes turned silver by moonlight gazed at him. “Thank you,” the angel said, “for the most perfectly lovely–”

He was drowned out by the roar from the street and fireworks bursting up, flooding the sky with a rainbow of light.

Aziraphale turned with a cry of delight, shining more brightly than the fireworks himself.

Crowley didn’t even notice what the light show looked like. “You’re welcome, angel,” he murmured. “Happy New Year.”


End file.
